El Ciel Nocturne
by theshippingprince
Summary: After ending her relationship with her boyfriend, twenty-three year old Star Butterfly was a mess. Luckily, her new safe haven (a French dessert restaurant named El Ciel Nocturne) has all she needs in store: delectable sweets, overly fluffy chairs, and an adorable waiter named Marco Diaz.
1. Chapter One

She was crying.

It wasn't what people would call regular crying. She didn't cry like someone in a movie, one silent tear falling down her face. No, when she cried, it was like a thunderstorm. It was a hurricane of blotchy red marks, swollen eyes, and gallons upon gallons of salty tears. It wasn't pretty. But, to be entirely honest, people who cried beautifully weren't really people.

No.

They were probably robots.

Or at least, Star Butterfly, from her unruly blonde hair down to her horned purple boots, thought so.

But no matter how many people cried perfectly like robots, that didn't change the fact of what had happened. The two of them had been together forever. There had been nothing that could've separated them. Her best friend had even said they were meant to be. (And she wasn't one to say such things. Peyton-Hannah—nicknamed Pony-Head due to a several years old halloween costume malfunction—was the most brutally honest girl Star had ever had the pleasure of meeting. So, if she said Star and Tom were meant to be, they were meant to be.)

And Pony-Head had a point. Tom Lucitor was gentlemanly, and tall, with a perfectly styled flash of pinkish hair atop his head. He wore neat button-down shirts that he had picked out himself, tucked into perfectly ironed slacks. He even rolled the sleeves of his shirts up to his elbows, something that (both Star and Pony-Head agreed) was _always_ attractive. He even brought her flowers when she was least expecting it.

He was what both Star and Pony-Head had imagined as a fairytale prince.

And yet…

Here she was—Star Butterfly the brave, Star Butterfly the magnificent—crying. And it was all Tom's fault.

They were having a bit of a bickering argument. It wasn't anything new. Since they had started living together a couple years back, Star had realized how much she loved her personal space and although she loved Tom and everything that came hand in hand courtesy of being with Tom, sometimes she needed a moment to herself. And he didn't seem to understand that. He cuddled up to her at night, holding her firmly. So firmly that sometimes she couldn't even move in the darkness. He refused to leave her side. And although she loved him… If he couldn't understand how she felt, if he could never truly just let her go out without desperately needing to know exactly where she was at all times… It truly wasn't meant to be.

So she told him how she felt. How much she needed her space, how much she cared for him. She had crossed her fingers, and her toes, hoping that he would understand, that his love for her and her love for him would overrule any issue that they ran into.

But, he had yelled at her.

He had called her ungrateful. He said he had given her everything and she hadn't given him anything in return. He used words that were too awful for her to even repeat alone, let alone use upon other people. He had yelled so loudly that he had almost spit on her face.

And then she had snapped.

She hadn't yelled at him. She had waited until he had finished shouting. Until he had run out of words to say to her. Until his voice was hoarse and he was panting, cheeks flushed nearly as red as his hair. And then she said it.

She had told him she was done.

Done.

She had practically whispered it. Mumbled it. Just loud enough for him to hear it. Although she hadn't been thinking about it before hand, almost avoiding the subject within her own mind, stuck on the fantasy of having a prince-like boyfriend, she realized now that it was inevitable. Tom, no matter how much he tried, would always have the same horribly clingy ways that he did then. It had just taken Star much too long to realize it. The whole room had become eerily silent. The moment was frozen. He stood there and it took a split second for the words to register in his mind but it was too late. Star had moved, going into auto pilot. Simple thoughts raced through her mind. She could pick up her clothing later. She could pick up her stuff later. But she couldn't be here.

Not now.

Not now.

It was raining outside. _Huh_ , she had thought rather ridiculously, _the sky is mirroring how I feel_. She grabbed her purple raincoat from the closet, her kiddish rain boots with the horns on them that Tom had made fun of her for buying, her apartment keys, and her wallet that had a photo booth photograph that she and Tom had taken on one of their very first dates.

And then she had left.

She didn't even hear the door slam on her way out. She was so focused on putting one foot in front of the other and hoping that Tom wouldn't follow her to reason with her. But at the same time, hoping that he would.

It would've been horribly romantic. The two of them in the rain. He would dry her tears and apologize for everything she had wanted him to apologize for. He would dry her tears with his gentle fingers. And he would hug her tightly. It would've been like the climax of a movie. Something like _Breakfast at Tiffany's_. All she was missing was the cat.

But he didn't come after her.

So Star Butterfly kept walking.

She kept walking until she could barely see through her own tears. The whole world seemed so fuzzy. So blurry. So unreal. What happened couldn't have possibly happened, could it? Her tears certainly thought so. But her mind did not. She couldn't remember a time when she and Tom hadn't been together. Pony-Head said they were practically attached at the hip. Nothing could separate them.

And yet, here she was.

Separated.

Cut off.

She began to cry. Harder. It was awful.

In fact, it was so awful that she didn't realize where she was going until she looked up from the splattered concrete.

In front of her was that quaint little dessert shop that Tom refused to go into back when they had first started dating. It had a French title, something that Star couldn't pronounce for the life of her. (Tom could say it but, whenever he said it, he managed to make the title sound mean.) From outside, through the rain coated windows, she could see that fabric hung in loose loops from the ceiling. And layers of mismatched material covered the whole ceiling, all sewn together like a makeshift purple and blue quilt. And from between the layers of looping fabric, tiny golden, flickering stars hung at uneven lengths, completing the whole clear night sky look.

Inhaling deeply, Star wiped her cheeks hastily with her sleeves and climbed up the short stairs to the entrance.

The quiet sound of chimes tinkled when she entered.

The hostess, a young woman with platinum blonde hair with an aqua streak on the left side, sat up quickly. She must've been dozing off.

"Welcome to _El Ciel Nocturne_!" If the woman noticed that she was crying, she didn't say anything. Perhaps she was still half asleep. "Sit wherever you'd like."

Star nodded and walked past her.

The whole room was much more amazing when she was inside it. It reminded her much of being in a blanket fort, or a snow globe. The stars that dangled from the ceiling sparkled and gleamed as she looked at them. Perhaps it was simply her tears, and entirely unattractive gasping sobs that she let out every so often that made the whole room much more magical (in a weird way). Soft, almost elevator-esque music drifted calmly around the room. There were mismatched chairs and tables scattered almost haphazardly about the space, all the type of huge fluffy reading chairs that narrators sat in in movies.

There were only a few other people sitting at tables in the restaurant. Two waiters—one tall and thin with a cloud of dark brown hair and thick, black rimmed glasses and the other rather short and rounder with hair even redder than Tom's—were folding cloth napkins together, their conversation was mumbled, only broken by the occasional burst of laughter. The hostess had put her head back down onto her desk in pure exhaustion (or maybe just boredom, Star wasn't sure). There was only one other customer in the shop. A young, rather mysterious looking man in a hardcore leather jacket. He had a swoop of dark brown hair across the right side of his face and he looked like he had fallen asleep in his comfortable chair, a thin line of drool coming from his slightly open mouth. The whole room just looked… Sleepy. It was strangely comforting, despite the fact that she had never been there before.

Star let out another quiet gasp of a sob, took off her raincoat—draping it around the back of her chair by one of the rain soaked windows—and sat down.

She was lucky that nobody she knew was around to see her.

Star leaned down slightly and pulled the bottom of her shirt up to her face so she could wipe her tears away. It was awkward but, it was better than letting them drip all over the place.

"Do you want a serviette?"

Star looked up, dropping her shirt and smoothing it back down, staying consistently blotchy and flustered. It was her waiter. He was young man with dark brown combed over hair that looked like it had been neat at the beginning of the day but, was now rather messy. He had a mole under his right eye, and thick bushy eyebrows. The name tag that was pinned to his white t-shirt read—in perfect cursive— _Marco_.

"Err… A napkin?" He paused again, looking a bit awkward. He glanced away from her eyes as he continued to ramble on. "A tissue? Some kleenex? That sort of thing?" He shifted from one foot to the other. "I mean, it'd be better than using your shirt, right?"

Star nodded, worried that if she opened her mouth to try to thank him she might begin to cry a lot more fiercely than she had been previously.

He began to walk away from her before suddenly turning back towards her. "Wait, yes to the tissues or yes to it would be better than wiping your tears on your shirt?" He paused for less than a second, not giving her time to respond, if she was even capable of it. "You know what? Never mind. I'll figure it out." He turned away again and headed towards the kitchen.

He returned a few moments later with a roll of paper towels, and a lavender colored menu. Star noticed that the menu and the fabric used to make all the apron portions of the uniforms that the waiters and the hostess were wearing, were the same color. (Star had to admit it was a nice purple-y aesthetic.)

"There wasn't any more paper napkins and since Alfonzo and Ferguson," he gestured to the two other waiters who were giggling together quietly, "are still folding the fancy napkins I couldn't give you one of those. It's a weird _Nocturne_ thing, don't ask. So here. Paper towels. They'll do the job. But if anything goes wrong and somebody anyone asks? I didn't give them to you." He winked and placed the paper towel roll on her table, followed by the menu. "Have you been here before?"

Star tore one of the paper towel sheets off the roll and began to dab her face dry. She took a few shaky breaths before she answered him. "I haven't… Although, I've always wanted to."

"Well that's a good place to start. People who don't want to be here are generally unhappy." He paused, turning to gesture at the hostess with the streak in her hair and the fact that she had fallen asleep again. "Exhibit A: Jackie Lynn Thomas." Between the look on Marco's face and the way he said her name reminded her vividly of how Tom used to say _Star_. Star bit down slightly at her bottom lip. She needed to just get her mind off of Tom.

"Well… What do you like?" she said.

It took him a moment to respond. He pulled himself rather forcefully from his thoughts, the tops of his ear slightly pinker than usual. He cleared his throat. "Well, it all depends on what your tastebuds enjoy. There are ice-creams, scones, cakes, croissants…" He leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. "But my favorite isn't on the menu. I always love a baguette with melted cheese. I'm just a sucker for cheese, that's what really makes it for me. I'd tell you to get nachos but, the chef doesn't have tortillas here. A French restaurant thing, I guess."

"But isn't this a dessert place?"

"Yeah but, the way I see it, anything can be a dessert. Desserts are just something that you eat after your main meal. A lot of people see that as something distinctly fancy and sweet. But me? A baguette with melted cheese is the perfect dessert, apart from nachos, that is."

For the first time in what seemed to be forever, Star smiled.

Her nose was still red, her eyes were still swollen, there were even still some tears on her cheeks but, out of nowhere, she felt happy. This Marco, this kind and gentle young man had noticed she was upset and he was trying his best to make her at least slightly happier. He didn't need to know what had happened. He just did what he thought was right.

She and Pony-Head had been wrong.

A prince wasn't somebody who wore beautiful clothing and gelled their hair perfectly. A prince didn't yell until he made someone cry. A prince was someone who was kind and gentle no matter what. A true prince was someone like Marco.

"You've convinced me," said Star. "I'll take your secret special."

"Good choice," replied Marco.

* * *

Hello! I hope you enjoyed the first installment of El Ciel Nocturne! It's a work in progress but, I'd love to hear what my readers have to say so please send me some reviews, favourites and follows on what you think! Thanks so much! :^)


	2. Chapter Two

Star Butterfly pressed her best friend's apartment buzzer.

Peyton-Hannah lived in the top floor of an architecturally beautiful apartment building. It had eighteen floors in total, the corners of each floor had little gargoyles leaning out and overlooking the street below, and the sloping roof was a lovely turquoise color—something that had been red copper a long time ago. It had always reminded Star of one of those ridiculous hotels that tourists liked to visit while on vacation. She had told Pony-Head about that particular fact and the rambunctious young woman had retaliated by buying the top two floors as soon as the building had put a "for sale" sign up. It was a very smart choice. Pony-Head received a whole lot of money each month by renting out the entire second floor to whomever she pleased. (That usually tended to be handsome model-esque young men who somehow found their ways up to the top floor with her but, that was besides the point.)

Star didn't remember the last time she had spent the evening at her best friend's house. Since moving in with Tom, she hadn't seen the eccentric girl in what felt like forever.

In fact, the last time she truly remembered staying over was the night of her twenty second birthday. Pony-Head and Star's birthdays were several months apart but, they always celebrated together, finding the day exactly between their birthdays and doing exactly that. They had gone out for drinks with all their friends—Tom included—and Star had eventually headed home to Pony-Head's to spend the rest of the evening on the strikingly modern couch that the girl herself insisted on having. It was then that they had last watched a movie marathon together. They had written down some of their favorites, placed the pieces of paper into a hat and had drawn out four films: _Sixteen Candles_ (Pony-Head adored Molly Ringwald with a never-ending passion), _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ (not for the blatant racism but for the elegance of Audrey Hepburn), _Marvel's Captain America: Civil War_ (the triangle Dorito man was not to be _not_ watched), and _Die-Hard_ (obviously).

Both girls had fallen asleep around the middle of _Die-Hard_.

The next morning, Star had received a text message from Tom, asking if they could talk. (He had wanted to ask her to move in with him, which she had said yes to and the rest was history.)

Star was almost twenty-four now. She couldn't remember a time since their twenty second birthdays that she and her best friend had spent any quality alone time together.

"Hello?" came a muffled response from the speaker. It was undoubtedly Pony-Head.

"Hey. It's Star. Can I come in?"

There was an audible gasp, and then an incredibly squeaky voice began to shout. "Star? _Star Butterfly!_ Girl, you just hold on one sec, I'll be down!" And then the speaker shut off.

Star was left in a rather awkward silence. Although it wasn't all that late in the evening, the sun had already begun to set, and the rain had yet to let up. _Still mirroring my mood_ , Star thought. In her left hand, she held tightly to the paper bag that her waiter, the ever kind Marco, had been so adamant about her taking from the shop. It had a couple of croissants and another one of those absolutely delicious baguettes with melted cheese. (He had been entirely correct on how delicious it was.) He had told her it was on the house. As was the rest of her meal.

Everything and been on the house.

Or more realistically: everything had been on Marco.

The front door swung open and a mess of hot pink hair named Pony-Head crashed full force into Star Butterfly.

"Oh my gosh B-Fly it's been for-ever!" fawned Pony-Head.

Pony-Head was dressed in a rather loose robe, tied hastily at her fifties-housewife type waist. If said robe was covered in some sort of pattern, Star couldn't tell. It seemed to be stitched together from hundreds of scraps of different materials. She had on a pair of ratty old flip-flops, with one foot holding the door open behind her rather gracefully. Her hot pink hair was half tied up into a bird's nest of a bun, and half hanging in little strips across her forehead and neck.

Star noticed that Pony-Head's eyebrows were dyed the same bright pink as her hair.

Had she really been away for that long?

"Hey Pony-Head. It's good to see you again."

"It feels like it's been for-ev-er!" Just looking at her, the blonde's heart ached. How could she possibly have abandoned her best friend for so long? How had she done it? She had missed all those perfect, slightly lopsided, quirky actions that Pony-Head had done over the past three years. She felt like crying again. "Star," her friend's voice cracked loudly, "you look super bummed! What's wrong?"

"I… I…" She could barely force the words out of her. Despite all that Marco had done, there underlying fact was that she had done it. She had broken up with Tom. And knowing Tom, there were going to be no take backs. No matter what happened. "I broke up with _him_."

Pony-Head gasped, slamming her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with shock. "Oh Star…"

The blonde clutched her bag of sweets from _El Ciel Nocturne_ even tighter in her hand.

With a gentle hand at her elbow, Pony-Head lead Star through the dusty main entrance—one whose floorboards creaked, and ceiling was dusted with rustic brown arches and cobwebs that looked as if they had originally belonged in a haunted house—of her building, (nodding to the tired-looking concierge with a bright smile) and into the old-fashioned elevator at the end of the lobby. She swiped her keycard and pressed the button for the top floor.

Despite the antique beauty of the lobby, everything else was fairly modern. It was the perfect mix of old-timer stained glass windows and sleek modern design. Pony-Head's apartment in itself was a perfect example of that. Although, Star was having trouble noting any of the beauty that her best friend's apartment building held, due to the fact that she was trying her best not to cry. Surprisingly, she didn't completely break down until the elevator dinged, signaling that they had arrived.

Perhaps it was because she had wasted all her tears earlier on the horrible walk from her—Tom's—apartment to _El Ciel Nocturne_. Perhaps it was because she trusted Pony-Head more than anyone in the world and if Star was okay with anyone seeing her cry, it was the pink haired party girl. Perhaps it was something else entirely that Star had never thought to think of. But, nonetheless, Star Butterfly let out a gasping little sob, one that threatened becoming that simply over the top storm that her tears usually became, and stepped out of the elevator and into Pony-Head's apartment.

Now, it was a strange apartment. Since the girl herself had bought the entire top floor, she had removed a lot of the hallways, walls and general separations that came with having several suites, and made it all just one giant, open concept room, with thin dividers for the bathrooms. Star had always thought that it probably wasn't safe to remove all the walls and general support that they provided but, it was too late to truly complain. What was done, was done.

It hadn't changed much since she had seen it last. Pony-Head had a perfect combination of clean and messy, old and new, perfect and torn to shreds. It was her _style_ , so to speak. There were modern rugs, beside slightly rusted side-of-the-road type cabinets, beside overstuffed reading chairs, beside glass table tops. It was as if half of her furniture had been bought straight out of a modern, Paris magazine, and the other half had been dragged from a goodwill. It was a exact replica of Pony-Head's personality, in furniture form, and it was wonderful.

The walls were set with ornate bay windows, each with a different colored curtain, turning spots of the room green and blue in the evening light. A few of the stuffed chairs that lined the room in random bursts, were turned over, as if she had thrown a party. There were dishes and glasses in the kitchen area that were piling up to unbelievably heights, as if a family of sixteen lived within the confines of her apartment, instead of just a family of one.

In the far right corner of the apartment, there was a mattress that was sitting on the floor below an orange curtained window. Clearly Pony-Head had still not taken the time to buy anything to place said mattress upon. She had a cabinet dedicated to her many articles of clothing, and it seemed like all of said articles were flowing out from within the confines like a broken dam. There was clothing _everywhere_. Star would've laughed if she hadn't been so upset.

"Make yourself at home, girl. I'm going to get us some ice-cream." Pony-Head shuffled out of the elevator and into her home. She smiled slightly before her chin wobbled and she erupted into sobs once more. "You look like you need it."

Star smiled as her friend shuffled to the kitchen. After stepping out of the elevator and letting the doors shut behind her, the whole apartment seemed considerably darker than usual, despite the colored curtains. There was just a single light that was on throughout the entirety of the apartment: Pony-Head's television, seated in what would be considered her living room. The thin screen flickered ominously, casting a slight glow on the overturned chairs and mismatched articles of clothing that seemed to be flooding from everywhere in particular. There was a thick, obnoxiously yellow knitted blanket—one that Star remembered buying for her best friend as a birthday gift a long time ago—that had been flung haphazardly off the couch and now lay in a heap on the floor.

The couch in question, a modern, designer something-and-another, had been refurbished many times in Star's memory and it looked like it had suffered a few more refurbishing sessions since she had last seen it. Star fumbled out of her boots and shuffled over to the couch, flopping down upon it and curling up into a ball. She pulled the blanket off the floor and wrapped it around herself. It smelt distinctly like Pony-Head, which was a smell that she couldn't describe for the life of her. The only thing it reminded her of was her childhood, her old home. On Pony-Head's television screen _Titanic_ with the volume at near zero played. (She recognized young Leonardo DiCaprio immediately.)

Eventually, Pony-Head reappeared and jumped over the back of the couch to sit beside her friend with a rather giant container of mysteriously flavored ice cream. She handed Star a spoon and mumbled, with a spoon full of ice-cream already in her mouth, "dig in, B-Fly."

And dig in she did.

The ice cream was… Well, it didn't really have an exact flavor. Star assumed that Pony-Head had somehow combined what was left from a bunch of different containers of ice cream and had hoped for the best. It worked sometimes, but other times… Not so much. (Strawberry and what Star presumed was a mock wasabi-flavor was a rather horrible example.) But, overall, the ice cream did its job. Star managed to feel less awful as she and Pony-Head cried their way through the ending of the film, yelling loudly at the television that there was "enough room on the raft" and that "leo didn't have to die".

The blonde eventually leaned her head on Pony-Head's shoulder, wrapping the both of them in the comfort of the blanket.

"It's getting pretty late, Star," said Pony-Head, "you're crashing here tonight, right?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Star said, and both girls giggled quietly.

And as if no time had passed since Star had last slept over, Pony-Head got up, grabbed some more of her crumb-covered blankets from her mattress on the floor, dragged them back to the couch, wrapping the two of them up even further. The blonde wriggled her arm out of the many blankets to grab the television's remote, sending the two of them in to pitch darkness. Star looked up at the ceiling, listening to the comforting sound of her friend's breathing, and the familiar body heat pressed up against her shoulder. It reminded her of how much time they had lost since she had agreed to with _him_.

Pony-Head hadn't deserved to be abandoned. And yet, Star had let it happen without a moment's notice.

"I'm sorry," Star whispered quietly. It was always easier to say things at night when she couldn't see her friend's expression.

"For what?" Pony-Head whispered back.

"I haven't been that great a friend to you." The blonde sighed quietly. "I thought he was so… Perfect. But he wasn't." Star paused, biting her lip in the darkness. The couch creaked softly as she moved to look over in the general direction of her best friend. "We haven't spoke in so long because of my infatuation, and we should've. You've always been here for me and I haven't always been around for you. So… I'm sorry. For everything." She paused again. "I know I wouldn't forgive you so quickly if you did the same to me so, I'm going to not only apologize until the end of time but, I really want to make all that time we missed up to you."

There was a beat of silence, and Star closed her eyes, waiting for a response. It was as if Pony-Head was trying to choose her words carefully. Star's chest felt as if an elephant was sitting on it. She didn't know what she would do if Pony-Head didn't forgive her.

"I was really kinda upset, at the beginning," she started, uncharacteristically quiet, "I mean, B-Fly, we're best friends and best friends don't just abandon each other like that!"

"I know."

"I think, all that matters is that you're back. I don't wanna loose you again, Star," mumbled Pony-Head, "Promise me I won't loose you again to some pretty, yet stupid, boy. And if I do? At least come over to my place so we can gossip about him together. I want to be a part of your life, girl."

Star laughed quietly, some pressure easing from her chest. "I promise."

Pony-Head sighed, adjusting her position on the couch. "But, in all honesty, B-Fly, do you think I would let you sleep at my house if I didn't like you anymore?" Both girls laughed, and the tension that had appeared when Star had first said she was sorry, vanished entirely. Time had passed between the two of them but, it wasn't enough to truly pull them apart. Only best friends stood the test of time. "You're the best friend a girl like me could ever have. Besides, if you're going to apologize until the end of time, I take my apologies in the forms of expensive nights out, and extravagant, over-the-top gifts."

"I'm sure I can make that happen."

"There's the Star Butterfly I know and love!" Pony-Head poked her friend in the gut, earning a small squeak from the blonde. "Welcome back, girl!"

There was another pause, and Star could practically feel Pony-Head smiling into the darkness.

"Thank you, Pony-Head."

"No, Star, _Thank you_ ," said Pony-Head. "Say, you're never going to let that nickname go, are you?"

"Not in a million years," replied Star.

Feeling a lot better with her best friend glued to her side, Star pulled the blanket further up over her body. With one final hope that she wouldn't fall off the couch in her sleep, the blonde felt herself fall slowly into a slumber, lulled even further into dreamland by the repetitive, comforting breathing of her best friend.

* * *

The overwhelming support for this story has been emense! Thank you all so much for all your lovely reviews, favorites and follows! It really makes my day! Although this is only the second installment, I plan to write a bunch more! Please feel free to let me know what you think! (And I promise there will be more Marco in the following chapters!) Thanks again! :^)


	3. Chapter Three

Star Butterfly never dreamt.

Sure, she had dreams. Everybody had dreams. But she never remembered them. For her birthday one year, her parents had bought her a dream journal to record all the fragments of information that her dreams showed her. All the worlds her subconscious created on a whim. All the strange, mismatched monsters and fuzzy, inconsistent characters her creative mind held. But, although she had had the book for over thirteen years, it remained empty. Dusty. Tucked away on her shelf. The perfect spine holding a constant reminder of what she didn't have.

In her private elementary school, there had been a "Dream Day" where kids brought in dioramas of what their dreams looked like. Happy moments with families. A pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Swimming underwater with the mermaids. And then there was Star, with her empty shoebox, trying to keep herself together as she told the class that she didn't dream.

The teacher hadn't believed her and she had received a poor grade on the assignment. It was the first of many. (Sometimes her father even joked that it was that teacher's fault Star had so many bad grades throughout high school. "If only she hadn't introduced Star to the ability to get a failing grade!)

When she had told Tom about it, he had said it was nothing to worry about. He had said he dreamt all the time and he didn't remember a single thing. That it was fine. That it was normal. He had pushed stray strands of her hair back behind her ear, kissed her cheek, and told her it was fine. She had blushed and they had dropped the subject entirely. Of course, she never really believed him when it came to dreams. She always felt like she was missing out on something huge, like the final piece of a puzzle that hadn't come in the box in the first place. She would never truly know what that image of childhood would really look like.

But this time it was different.

Star knew she was dreaming. She could tell. It wasn't incredibly obvious. No, it was more than that. It was something about the world that seemed unreal. The sky was too purple, the grass too red. Blossoms floated down from trees slower than they did in real life. And then there was Tom. But he looked considerably more elegant than usual. Nicer. His eyes were softer, his skin smoother. He looked like Leonardo DiCaprio but, also like an exotic prince. Maybe Leonardo DiCaprio as an exotic prince? It was hard to say.

He kept shifting. Not in a terribly noticeable way, but just noticeable enough. He was solidly there one second, and then it was like he was sketched in front of her. Sometimes he was just a silhouette. Other times he was just red, like his hair. But sometimes, he went back to normal, his bright eyes shining, his charming smile making her heart melt.

"Isn't it beautiful, Star?" said Tom.

And it was. It really was beautiful. The clouds parted and a ray of sunshine shown through, landing on the two of them. Tom—who was sitting rather elegantly on the grass, his white, incredibly telenovela-esque, billowing, low v-neck shirt blowing softly in the breeze—got up. As he stood above her, his dark slacks made him seem taller than Star originally remembered.

He offered her his hand and she took it without a thought.

Without looking, he began to walk backwards. She followed him, never taking her eyes off his shifting face. She watched as it shifted from vividly present, to not, to back again. He smiled at her and she smiled back.

Suddenly, there was something beneath them, and they were walking upwards. A rainbow had appeared in the grass, and they had started their decent up the beautiful structure. Star thought, ridiculously, that it was like a staircase to the stars. Tom squeezed her hand, and she squeezed his back. She followed him as he walked backwards, facing her, up the rainbow bridge.

Star blinked and the two of them were way up in the clouds, standing atop the highest point in the rainbow bridge. Tom had let go of her hand, and had wandered a little further in front of her. He changed slightly, shifting in and out of her focus. He looked different, meaner, more like the Tom she knew, not the Tom her mind had created. With sharp, angry-looking hair, eyebrows scrunched together in an irritated manor, looking so out of place, surrounded by clouds that looked as if they were actually made of cotton candy—some blue, others pink.

"Tom!" said Star, calling out to him as he meandered a couple feet in front of her. "Wait for me!"

"Just a little further, Star. I know you can do it," his voice was muffled by the clouds, that were slowly growing thicker and hazier around the terribly thin, almost translucent material of the rainbow bridge below her.

Star stopped walking and Tom disappeared into the fog. She looked around for him, seeing nothing but dull mist. She looked down at her feet, which seemed to slowly be slipping through the rainbow bridge, as if all magic that had been holding it together was caused only by him. And now that she was alone… Well, ultimately, she was screwed.

"Tom?" she could hear her voice crack and echo through the mist. "Tom, I'm falling!"

His voice echoed back at her. "Well, don't!" She could practically hear him smirk at her. "You're better than this, Star. If I could do it, so can you. So just walk."

"I can't! I'm falling!"

She was down to her knees through the rainbow. It was like what she had imagined sinking into a huge vat of jello would be like, but less fun. Although she was wearing shoes, she could feel that there was not even any clouds beneath the colored bridge. Nothing would stop her fall.

She heard him groan in frustration. "I'm tired of looking out for you, Star. I can't be here for you forever! It's exhausting. Just keep walking or stay there, I don't care." And then she heard the click of his footsteps, walking away.

Then there was a horrible feeling in her stomach. Like butterflies, or food poisoning but, considerably worse. Tom wasn't coming back. He wasn't ever going to come back. She felt like crying, like lying down. But she couldn't do either of those things, for she would probably slip further through the fading rainbow bridge to oblivion.

And then the bridge broke.

It shattered, like glass, into colorful shards, and suddenly she was falling. Her stomach felt like it was up into her throat. Her heart too. She waved her arms this way and that, as if trying to force herself to fly. Hadn't she clarified that the whole situation was a dream? Why did it feel so real? She didn't know. She couldn't remember. But it really didn't feel like a dream. Not at all. And, as the ground seemed to get closer and closer, she felt the fear building up in her throat. Was she going to be hurt? Was she going to die? The strangeness of the grass and the trees seemed sharper now that she was hurtling towards it. Like she would impale herself when she landed. Maybe she was going to die!

Star tried to scream, to cry out. But her voice didn't seem to respond. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. The ground was getting closer and closer, her demise seeming more and more unenviable.

And then she was tackled. The whole world seemed to spin, like she was on one of those rides that spun the seats in the opposite direction as the rest of the ride. Something… No. Somebody was holding on to her. She could feel their fingers pressing into her back, their legs wrapped about her waist. Her nose was pressed awkwardly against their shoulder. The whole world seemed to be spinning but them. Without thinking, she grasped onto the person's body, squeezing tightly.

They seemed to be falling more slowly, the world seemed to be spinning less and less.

"It's okay, Star," said the slightly squeaky voice of the person who had saved her. "It's going to be okay."

"Tom?" She could feel the hand of the person pressed gently against the back of her head.

The person didn't answer, they just held her tightly. It was almost peaceful, despite the fact that they were still falling through the air. Like a moment in a movie, but Star couldn't quite picture which movie. Star pulled her face away from the mystery person's shoulder, to try to see if she could catch a glimpse of who it was.

"Star…?"

She knew that voice. How hadn't she recognized him earlier? It was Tom. But it wasn't Tom at all. He was dressed in the same outfit that Tom had been wearing earlier—high waisted black slacks, and a billowy white shirt—but he was completely different. Whereas Tom's outfit had made him look pompous and elegant, the outfit that the boy was wearing just made him look ridiculous.

She must've looked shellshocked. He made a weird face. His toothy grin seeming more uncomfortable than anything else.

"Star… You have to wake up," said the boy, his thick eyebrows bunching together. "This isn't real."

"I know," she heard herself responding.

"Wait… You know that this isn't real, or you know that you have to wake up?"

"A little bit of both."

He smiled a bit more genuinely than before. His dark hair was flying up as they fell, looking like it had permanent gel in it. His eyes seemed warm. And more than anything else, Star realized that although he was dressed like Tom, they were nothing alike. He wasn't anything like Tom, and… It was wonderful.

"Ma—"

* * *

"—rco?" said Pony-Head. "Who's Marco?"

Star gasped out of her slumber, sat bolt upright, and proceeded to slam her forehead against her best friend's and flop back down again. "Ow!"

"Star! Watch it!" Star blinked into her consciousness and was faced with the pink haired girl who was holding her forehead in pain.

Star sat up more slowly, pressing one hand against her forehead. "Sorry, you startled me."

"No, B-Fly, you startled _me_. You were, like, shouting in your sleep, girl! I was worried!" Pony-Head had clearly been up for far longer than Star had. The pink haired girl had not only straightened her perfect hair, but she had teased it enough so it looked perfectly messy. Her makeup looked flawless, as always. She was wearing a band shirt that was so faded Star was unable to tell what band it belonged to, and a tight mid-thigh length skirt. Something that Star knew Pony-Head's mother would not approve of if she saw her daughter now. ("You're showing far too much skin, Peyton-Hannah!")

"What was I saying?" Star sat up a little further as Pony-Head flopped down headfirst onto the limited room of the couch beside her friend.

"Marco. You kept saying Marco." Pony-Head's voice was a bit muffled through the blanket.

"Marco?"

"Yeah, girl, Marco! Who is he?" Star didn't answer, she only closed her eyes, hoping beyond anything else that her cheeks wouldn't flush a light pink color that she had a feeling they were already turning. She hadn't even had the time to figure out what the first dream she had ever remembered meant, let alone try to explain it to Pony-Head.

"No one special." She opened her eyes to glance over at Pony-Head's smirking face, before quickly closing them again. "I'm serious! He was just my waiter at _El Ciel Nocturne_ yesterday. I don't know why I was shouting his name in my sleep!"

"As much as I'd like to believe you, B-Fly, the color of your cheeks is really contradicting everything that is coming out of your mouth." She paused, and Star could practically hear her best friend's mind working. "Is he why you broke up with Tom?"

Star gasped loudly, opened her eyes and sat up abruptly. "No! Of course not!"

"Girl, your cheeks are saying otherwise." The pink haired young woman cackled loudly from her side of the couch. "I want to meet him. This Marco guy."

"No! No no no!" Star could feel her face getting warmer and warmer by the second. It really did not help to have her best friend laughing at every word that came out of her mouth. "You can't! He doesn't even know what my name is, Pony-Head!"

"And you said he works at _The Ciel Nocturne_? That's that weird french place, right?" Pony-Head had climbed back off the couch, and had whipped out her cellphone from her pocket. At hyper speed, she typed in the name of the restaurant and found directions to it. "That's pretty close to my apartment, I could walk over!" Pony-Head had already begun to slip on her expensive-looking shoes by the time Star untangled herself from the blanket on the couch.

The blonde sprinted and stood in front of the elevator doors, holding her arms out, trying to stop her friend. "You can't go. I won't let you go out there and embarrass me in front of someone I don't even know."

"I'd say you can come with me but you're a bit of a mess right now, Star." The pink haired young woman looked like she was trying her best to not burst out laughing. This was just going too well for her, too well. Almost as if she had planned it. "Your dress is all wrinkled and your makeup is smudged all over your face. From crying or from just general sleeping, I have no idea." Pony-Head crossed her arms, smiling at her friend. "It doesn't matter if you're interested in this 'Marco' or not. The B-Fly I know would never leave the house looking like that." Star looked like she was at a loss for words. "You look like a breakup zombie, girl!"

"A breakup zombie? That's—" But it was too late. While Star was distracted, looking down at her own disheveled form, Pony-Head had stepped into the open elevator and let the doors close behind her.

Star sighed loudly and sank onto the floor. Once Pony-Head had something stuck in her mind, it would take a miracle to get rid of it. It wasn't like she _liked_ the guy from the dessert place, Marco or whatever his name was. She had just had a strange dream that her friend hadn't given her any time to process before beginning to discuss it. Her best friend had taken it the wrong way and then this whole mess had spun out of control. The blonde didn't even think she was awake enough to process any of what had just happened happening.

Star had just broken up with Tom the day before. She really wasn't prepared to go on a date, or whatever Pony-Head had been insinuating with her smirks and cackled laughter. Marco seemed like a nice person, a genuinely sweet human being. Perhaps if she wasn't so emotionally distressed she would have made a move. Perhaps. But that certainly wasn't going to happen now.

The blonde got up off the floor and brushed her dress down, trying to straighten it. The material only wrinkled back up again. Figures. She went to get dressed, her mind creating worse and worse scenarios that Pony-Head would carefully create by the second. Although she had broken up with her so called love of her life the day before, the day after was off to a start almost equally as bad.

* * *

Hello everyone! Thank you for being so patient with me for this chapter. School is finally out, and unfortunately I still don't have that much time to write or edit but, I hope you all enjoyed this little chapter nonetheless! (It's very cliché and I apologize for that wholeheartedly. The next chapter won't be as cliché.) Until then, however, I hope everyone is enjoying the beginnings of their summers!


	4. Chapter Four

"What do you mean he's not here?"

"Marco. Marco Diaz." Pony-Head nodded as the girl leaning on the hostess table replied in a bored voice. She had a messy mane of dark hair that flipped upwards at the ends, and she wasn't dressed in the purple uniform that the rest of the waiters in the establishment were wearing. The only smudge of purple was the apron that she had tied hastily around her waist. She reminded Pony-Head of somebody she saw in a movie with Star once. Maybe the basket case girl in _The Breakfast Club_? She wasn't sure.

"He doesn't work here on Monday's." The girl looked down at the schedule in front of her. "Or Tuesdays and Wednesdays, it looks like. He works the rest of the week, though." She was wearing a green beanie that stuck out against the Star-aesthetic purple like a sore thumb.

"Leave a message for him, will you?" said Pony-Head.

The hostess raised an eyebrow, wrinkling up her nose in response to Pony-Head's question. "Do I look like Marco's secret keeper to you?"

The pink haired girl glanced down at the hostess' name tag, gritting her teeth. She hoped Marco wasn't like this, for Star's sake. "Janna, is it?" She put on her friendliest smile, which looked a lot more like a grimace, and started figuring out how to word what she had to say in the nicest possible way. If Star had been there, she would've been able to see the gears turning in her best friend's head. Those gears were not a good sign for anybody named Star Butterfly. "Look, I was here yesterday and this Marco guy, he was really sweet to me. I wanted to leave my name and number so he could call me."

There was a long, rather extended pause as Janna paused, and seemed unsure of how to react. The only thing she seemed to be able to do for a rather long moment was look shellshocked.

Obviously the Marco kid wasn't that popular with the ladies.

"Uh. Sure, I guess." Janna mumbled, eventually fumbling for a crumpled-up piece of paper from within her wrinkled apron, and handing it to Pony-Head, along with a pen. "Knock yourself out."

Against the hostess' table, she began to flatten the piece of paper—which had clearly gone through the wash a handful of times judging by how stiff it was—and then proceeded to write on it:

 _Hello Marco!  
_ _I don't know if you remember me but, I was that blonde  
_ _girl who who came into_ El Ciel Nocturne _yesterday. I was  
_ _having a bit of a bad day and your kindness made it at the  
_ _very least, ten times brighter. I'd like to thank you in person  
_ _sometime, if you're free.  
_ _\- Star Butterfly_

Pony-Head read her note over again.

Although she hadn't seen Star in over a year, she was absolutely positive that the way Star wrote anything hadn't changed. The note she had written to their eleventh grade history teacher about changing her grade had had similar writing. If there had been a second version of her pink haired self, Pony-Head would've high-fived her. She scrawled her own phone number—Pony-Head didn't trust Star to know what she was doing if the Marco guy started texting her out of nowhere, especially after what had happened with Tom—below the small letter, folded it in half, and handed it back to Janna.

"Thanks, Janna." The pink haired girl waved her fingers at the hostess, turned on her heel, and exited the establishment. Finally. She breathed a breath of fresh air. _El Ciel Nocturne_ was the epitome of a young girl's dream of the ultimate sleepover.

No wonder Tom had never wanted to go inside.

And no wonder Star loved it there so much.

* * *

Janna Ordonia had waited exactly five minutes and twenty three seconds since the woman with the pink hair had left.

Janna wasn't a terribly patient person, which was entirely her own fault. Being patient was really dumb, in hindsight, just like waiting was really dumb. Why stand still when she could _act_? In fact, according to a survey that Alfonzo had taken a couple months back at _El Ciel Nocturne_ out of pure boredom, she had been voted most likely to be unable to wait for anything out of all the employees. It was not a good thing to be known for, especially in the business of being a waiter. But in the particular scenario that she currently found herself in, she was proud of her impatient nature.

Opening the note, exactly five minutes and twenty three seconds after the pink haired woman had dropped it onto the hostess' table was like opening that suitcase at the end of _Pulp Fiction_. The golden light seemed to emanate out of it, and Janna even had to squint slightly in order to actually read the loopy handwriting that had been written only five minutes and twenty three seconds ago.

But, when she did... It was like entering a different universe.

Janna's face lit up. Her eyes sparkled. Her hair blew in the wind and she was suddenly lit by a spotlight from above like a famous movie star. The thought of the note ran circles in her head.

Marco had a secret admirer.

Marco Diaz, the guy who had accidentally tripped over his own feet and somehow taken the "o" and the "e" out of Nocturne on the neon sign outside the restaurant, leaving it to say _El Ciel No turn_ for awhile.

Marco Diaz, the guy who had—as a dare from Jackie Lynn Thomas—chugged a near gallon of milk, and then proceeded to puke it all out of him on the newly refurbished purple carpet of the restaurant half an hour later.

Marco Diaz, the guy who had karate chopped his surprise birthday cake in half out of fear.

Marco Diaz, known as "The Safe Kid" in high school.

That Marco Diaz had a secret admirer. And it was absolutely unreal.

"Alfonzo! Ferguson!" Janna turned on her heel to face to nearly empty restaurant. (The only person who was actually there ordering food was that musician named Oscar. Or was it Oskar? Janna wasn't sure. He was more than a regular, he had practically become part of the furniture, and he certainly wouldn't care if they did crazy stuff in the restaurant. He was sleeping in his designated chair, wearing that ridiculous leather jacket.) She knew the two dweebs would be around somewhere. "Show yourselves!"

There was silence. Utter silence.

"I know you can hear me so I'm going to say this once: What is Marco's number? I know you two have it, being all buddy-buddy with him like you are." There was continued silence. "Now, there are two ways we can do this. There's the easy way, and then there's the hard way." She folded the note back and placed it into the pocket of her purple apron. Neither boy responded.

Janna rolled up her sleeves. "Looks like it's going to be the hard way, then." The dark haired girl grinned maniacally; she had hoped it was going to be the hard way. The hard way was always more fun.

"Wait!" called two voices, clearly fear stricken. "Don't hurt us!"

"Come out and face me, like the dweebs you are!"

"It's just, Marco told us to never give you his number!" Janna was pretty sure that was Alfonzo. But, she didn't care. They had chosen the hard way, she was going to give them the hard way, with the least amount of effort as possible.

"I don't care. I'm going to give you a count of three. You'd both better be out here by then." She cleared her throat, leaning against the hostess' table. "One. Two. _Three_!"

It took less than a second for the two hooligans to come tumbling out of their hiding places. Alfonzo, with his glasses askew and his hair slightly puffier on one side than the other, and Ferguson, his pudgy cheeks all pink—presumably from holding his breath, trying not to be heard by the infamous Janna.

"Why do you want his number, Janna?" That was Alfonzo. Despite his fear, he seemed genuinely curious.

"What a wonderful question." Janna grinned and stepped towards them, dramatically pulling the note out of her apron and presenting it to them. " _Voilá!_ "

Both their eyes got really wide reading the note. They were in as much disbelief as she was when she had first read it. _Marco? With a secret admirer?_ It was an idea that was rather foreign to all three of them. She could see the duo remembering all of Marco's worst moments just like she had earlier. Sure, he had had a crush on their co-worker (and friend, on occasion) Jackie since he had actually begun to work at the restaurant back in high school but, he would never ask her out. (He didn't have the guts to, in Janna's opinion.)

It was just so strange to think about.

The three of them had so much history together that they couldn't picture Marco as anything but the awkward, bumbling mess of a karate kid that he was deep down inside.

"Huh," said Ferguson.

"Huh," said Alfonzo.

"That's what I thought too." Janna pulled the note away from their prying eyes and folded it up again. "The lady who came in to drop this off was a pink haired lady and I'm positive that this Star Butterfly isn't her. She says in her note that she's a blonde girl."

"Does that mean that somebody is trying to set up this Star Butterfly with Marco?" Alfonzo adjusted his glasses carefully.

"I don't think so." Janna had her hand on her chin, lost in thought. She felt like Sherlock Holmes, with considerably less murder on her hands. "Why? Good question. I believe the pink haired girl was just a messenger. This Star Butterfly may be too embarrassed to ask Marco herself if she can meet him someplace so, she had somebody else do it for her."

Ferguson's eyes widened even further, if that was even possible. "Marco's found somebody just as awkward as he is!"

"Perhaps…" Janna crossed her arms and looked between the two of them. "I'm interested to see how this plays out." She looked towards the two boys, that maniacal smile grazing her lips again. "Now which one of you is going to give me Marco's number so I can give him the good news?"

* * *

Hello! It's been forever! I'm so sorry! I hope you've all enjoyed this installment of El Ciel Nocturne! Hopefully, more installments will be sooner rather than later but, I have decided not to promise anything because my schedule is all in flux now that school is starting up again! But, if I will promise anything, it'll be that I will finish this story. (Knock on wood.) But, thank you all for you patience and let me know what you think! :^)


	5. Chapter Five

The chapter in which Marco Diaz and I share the same, terribly busy schedule.

* * *

Marco Diaz was a horrible sleeper.

As a child he had cut the circulation out of his leg on more than one occasion because he had twisted his blankets in such a knot around his thigh. His parents had had to take him to this hospital to make sure they didn't have to cut his leg off (which was probably an overstatement brought on by his overactive imagination). But that was only the beginning. He moved about in his sleep so much that sometimes, when he was little, his parents came into his bedroom in the middle of the night to remove his blankets. It was safer to sleep in his pajamas alone and freeze rather than sleep in his blankets and die, in their opinion.

But that was when he was still in school. Marco Diaz had graduated high school so long ago he could barely remember it. Like an island in the distance. He had graduated college with a really expensive degree that he was still desperately trying to pay off. (Although he had had a scholarship, that didn't mean that he was important enough to keep it for four years straight.) He had yet to be able to save enough money to actually leave his parents' house for an apartment of his own—a fact that he himself found incredibly uncomfortable as most of his other friends had left their parents houses—which, although it made little sense, was why he was currently sleeping.

Marco Diaz, from his messy dark hair, to the mole on his cheek, to his fluffy sock covered feet, was sleeping simply because he worked four jobs.

On Saturdays and Sundays, he worked late mornings teaching young children karate. He then rode his rickety bike all the way to _El Ciel Nocturne_ where he worked Wednesdays through Sundays from noon until midnight. On Wednesdays through Fridays he worked mornings at a rather depressing fast food restaurant. Through the weekdays he worked from eight until ten at a quaint little used bookstore.

Marco Diaz was, in short, a busy man.

His parents had practically forced him take Monday and Tuesday off—they had only specifically said during the day so Marco had taken on the evening job at the bookshop downtown. So home was where Marco was when his cellphone rang. Or, more accurately, home was where Marco was when his cellphone rang and promptly scared him half to death.

Falling off his bed was pretty expected. However, in the process, he managed to knot both his legs, and his right arm in the fabric. His left arm was left pinned behind his back. It was amazing how fantastically he managed to get himself into the worst positions possible for human interaction. He wriggled his body across the floor and tapped his phone with his nose, answering the call and putting it on speaker phone.

"Hello?"

"Diaz?" The voice sounded vaguely familiar.

"This is he."

And then quietly in the background he heard Ferguson say, "did he just say 'this is he'?" It was then that he knew exactly who was calling.

"Janna," said Marco, "remind me to tell Ferguson and Alfonzo what I asked them when I gave them my phone number in the first place."

"Oh they know." He could hear Janna grinning on the other line. "They were surprisingly willing to give me your phone number, Diaz. I'm sure you'd like to know why."

"Sure, fine, whatever."

"Drumroll please." He could hear both Ferguson and Alfonzo drum rolling in the background. Marco rolled his eyes. Janna had a tendency to make things more serious than they actually were. "That's enough." The background noise halted. "I hope you're sitting down Diaz because it would seem you have an admirer. A secret admirer."

It took a moment for the information to sink in. _He had a what?_ It didn't make sense. And it especially didn't make sense that Janna knew anything about it. He really did not trust her one bit. She was just the type of person to play a practical joke for the fun of it.

"Oh sure," he drawled sarcastically, rolling his eyes despite the fact that she couldn't see him. "Tell me all about this secret admirer of mine."

"As you wish." Janna cleared her throat loudly into the receiver and Marco winced at the sound, secretly glad that the trio on the other side of the phone couldn't see him. "Her name is Star Butterfly."

Star Butterfly. _Star Butterfly?_ The name sounded oddly familiar. It was as if a door in the back of his mind had opened ever so slightly but, he couldn't quite pull it fully open and release the information that was itching within.

Janna was still talking but, he had tuned her out. He exited out of the actual phone section of his phone and proceeded to google exactly who this Star Butterfly was and why on earth her name was so familiar to him. And—

Oh.

 _Oh._

 _Oh my god._

Looking at the first photograph that popped up, Marco Diaz nearly died right then and there.

How on earth could he possibly have missed _that_? Sure, she had been crying and a total utter mess but, he couldn't have possibly been blind enough to miss that the blonde had been serving yesterday was none other than Star Butterfly. _The_ Star Butterfly of Butterfly Industries, the daughter of one of the most famous, most prestigious companies that had ever graced the earth.

He made a mental note to schedule an eye doctor's appointment sooner rather than later.

Butterfly was one of the most well known last names to be heard in whispered conversations on public transit, or anywhere, really. (Public transit was just the first place that came to mind.) They were one of the richest families in the whole state. Known mostly for their beautiful and palace-like homes, as well as the numerous businesses that they had lining the whole country. They were like the royal family, without the whole tyrant-like ruling bit. They were so famous, they were the type of people that rumors were spread about but, people could never tell if the stories were true. The type of people that regular citizens giggled about where they went on vacation, whispering about what the Butterfly's wore to premieres of oscar winning movies, mumbling about where the Butterfly's donated their money every year around the holidays.

Marco remembered reading the cover of one of those tacky salon magazines as a child, and it had said that the next ten generations of Butterfly men and women would never have to work a day in their lives. Even if each generation spent huge, ridiculous sums of money, or did not think before making numerous bad choices.

When he was younger, he had been obsessed. Everybody his age was. Why? Because, although the Butterfly family had tried to keep it a secret, it had come out that the owners of the Butterfly estate—Moon and River Butterfly—had had a secret daughter. A princess to their dynasty. And that princess, a young girl that had been born the same year as Marco, and everybody else his age. It was like a dream—no, a miracle come true! Although none of the kids had ever met her, nor would they probably ever, they all felt attached, as if they knew her personally, whoever that Butterfly child was. They were the lucky generation who would grow up knowing that there was a Butterfly girl in their midst.

And for awhile, this mystery Butterfly was all they ever talked about. Wondering what she looked like, what her name was. The works.

But, over time, it had slipped from the minds of Marco Diaz's peers. Nothing more came up about the mystery daughter and the information became common knowledge. Boring, common knowledge. The girl's name had finally been announced years later as she had come of age, and her face was splattered about the Internet like a Jackson Pollock painting but, nobody had cared. The Butterfly craze had died down for Marco's classmates, as well as himself.

And yet, here she was. Star Butterfly. She had sobbed her way into his life, just because he happened to be in the right place at the right time. It was as if he was living through some poorly written novel filled with obvious plot points and cliches everywhere. Through the ridiculousness of the situation, Marco thought briefly that clearly Moon had won the name contest between the two Butterfly parents. How funny.

"—and that's when I was really surprised like, somebody actually likes Marco Diaz? It's not possible." Janna was still talking.

"Clearly it is possible, Janna. Otherwise you wouldn't be calling me."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, to which he could almost hear her scoff.

He took the moment to think about Jackie Lynn Thomas.

He had lost count on the length of time he had spent pining after her. It felt like forever. He believed he had been in love with her since the dawn of time, since before they had even met, since before he had ever laid eyes on her. She was the epitome of cool, the queen of style. He had fallen for her like the gravity was increased and he had tripped directly in front of her. He had fallen for her _hard_. Like she had stood in front of the sun and blocked everything else out.

Everybody at _El Ciel Nocturne_ knew. It was hard to hide something like that when he had to see her every week. To work along side her as if nothing was the matter, when in reality everything was the matter.

Alfonzo and Ferguson had realized it first but, they were at an advantage, they had known him for far longer. The four of them had all gone to the same high school, Jackie and the boys sharing more than a handful of classes together. As soon as they had figured it out, both Ferguson and Alfonzo took the time to sprint over to him and elbow him in the gut whenever they saw Jackie in the near vicinity. It was a miracle she hadn't figured it out. After they had "broken the case" to quote Alfonzo, they hadn't let it go for months. Marco swore he had bruises on his ribcage from all that elbowing, and scars on his brain from all that teasing. They liked to say that he should just make a move, not care what happened next. But, he had been tripping in her wake for far too long to do such a thing. If he was going to make a move, it had to be perfect.

And, as he told himself every day that he worked along side her at _El Ciel Nocturne_ , the perfect moment had yet to appear.

Janna had realized it next. And she had told everybody within earshot. People at _El Ciel Nocturne_ , people in the coffee shop he always went to to buy his morning coffee, a handful of students at the karate studio he taught at part time. He had been embarrassed for a few weeks, and had told everybody he had come down with the flu so he couldn't go to work. Janna had called him a chicken, and he hadn't been able to look Jackie in the eye for several weeks after that. (It didn't help that wherever he turned, people would ask if he had asked Jackie out yet. Janna was the worst.)

But, as if it was some sort of miracle, Jackie had never found out.

"Hey Diaz?" said Janna, and he could almost feel the question she asked directly afterwards without her saying it.

 _Do you want this girl's number?_

He wasn't sure.

Part of him wanted to wait for that perfect moment with Jackie. To push aside that strand of turquoise hair out of her face in the moonlight and whisper just how he had felt since he had practically laid eyes on her. To have her cheeks flush slightly in the moonlight or the the spotlight or whatever form of light the perfect moment found them in. To have her say that she felt the same way, that she knew they were meant to be together.

But, part of him wondered why he had even thought the girl, the Star Butterfly, was even looking for something even vaguely romantic. Perhaps she was just… Lonely. Did rich people get lonely? He wasn't sure. Rich people were like a whole different breed of human. Sure, she had wandered into _El Ciel Nocturne_ sobbing, that usually was a call for help, for somebody to step in and make her stop crying. (Which he had, without thinking.) Obviously something had happened to her, something bad. But, perhaps it had nothing to do with some sort of romantic interest in him.

Perhaps she just wanted a friend.

It was something he could wholeheartedly relate to. Needing a friend.

Without even giving himself a moment to think about it, to process it too much. To overthink and most likely change his mind, he smiled at his cellphone, at the invisible Janna on the other line, at the Star Butterfly who had given him the very phone number in a crumpled up note, and told Janna exactly what he wanted.

"I wonder what Jackie will say once she finds out you're cheating on her," said Janna, sarcastically.

"Oh shut up," said Marco, but he couldn't seem to wipe the stupid smile off his face.

It was like a childhood dream come true.

He was going to befriend Star Butterfly.

* * *

So, at the beginning of this week, I said to myself "don't write when you're doing college applications, it'll only mess you up when the time crunch begins". And yet, here I am, posting this, the second chapter I've posted in the last 48 hours. I hope you all enjoy witnessing me suffering first hand. I do it for you guys, my adoring readers! (And I also do it for myself, because procrastination is inescapable and I really have no choice.)

Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! Please, by all means, tell me how terrible the chapter is! (Don't actually do that too harshly, I'll cry.)


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